


Bed and Breakfast

by pizzacakes1234



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1435534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pizzacakes1234/pseuds/pizzacakes1234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's healing and Steve's trying to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bed and Breakfast

He's standing on the balcony with only a dark t-shirt and boxers on. The window is wide open and for a second Steve panics and sees black spots in his vision: the way Bucky's standing, leaning slightly forward, towering over the short metal railing. 

He could cut his stomach open on the sharp edges of steel, Steve thinks. And he could jump, a nagging voice in the back of his head comments. 

Steve clears his throat and thanks the heavens that he's got fast reflexes. The coffee mug shatters on the wall behind him, leaving an ugly brown stain and a noticeable dent.

"Sorry," Bucky mutters, voice hoarse. He moves to clean up the fragments, grabbing a dustpan from a cabinet and shoveling the sharp ceramic onto it with his metal hand. He's shaking, and Steve fights everything, opting to walk to the fridge and put the groceries away where he can't see Bucky falling apart. 

Steve remembers Natasha's words, the calloused pads of her fingers tracing the back of his neck like a silent warning. 

There should be no sense of intimacy, Steve. No contact unless necessary. You're putting yourself at risk bringing him into a familiar environment. He's a monster and you were his mission. He's not James or Bucky or Barnes. He's the Winter Soldier and he's not to be trusted. Steve had sardonically reminded her that he was no longer a target and Bucky was no longer an assassin, earning himself a sharp pinch to the ear. 

Bucky draws in a heavy breath, shoulders gently past Steve, and dumps the remainders of the cup into the trash. 

"Sorry," he says again, looking down at his hands. Steve reaches out to pat his shoulder, and can practically see Natasha staring him down. Unnecessary contact. He plays it off as scratching an itch on his neck. 

"It's fine. My fault anyway for spooking you. I'll get another one from the store tomorrow." He doesn't look Bucky in the eye and Bucky doesn't make an effort either. 

This is the way it should be. Steve knows. 

 

He gets up earlier than usual the next morning, takes a freezing shower, and then heads out for his run. Even an hour before dawn when the world is still drowned in a dusky darkness, the heat is soupy and thick. It clings to his skin and eventually he peels his sweat-soaked shirt off and tucks it into the waistband of his shorts. 

When the sun rises Tony calls, mainly inquiring about how the calibration of the latest model of Bucky's arm is working. 

"Perfectly," Steve replies. "I nearly got my head taken off by a coffee mug yesterday, so yeah, I'd say it's functioning smoothly."

"What?"

"Nothing." He doesn't feel the need to share Bucky's grief with anyone other than himself, and Tony--being unusually wise--decides not to push on the matter. 

Natasha catches him at the small coffeehouse down on Stonewall. She eyes his cup and the steam coming from it with a bland look. 

"It's too warm for hot beverages." He doesn't ask for the company but she sits down across from him anyway, and he answers before she can ask. 

"Tried to kill himself yesterday." 

"What?" She bristles and he forgets that she used to love him once, too.

"I don't know for sure. He was just standing by the -"

"Do you need me to take him back to SHIELD? I thought you said he was stable." 

"He is!" Steve flounders, regretting his earlier words. He's clinging to the gossamer of trust the Widow's allowing him, racking his brain for reasons for her to let him keep Bucky. "I think it was just a random trigger - could've been someone walking by who looked like someone from the Red Room or Lukin." 

"And he could see their faces from a few hundred feet up?" she states dryly. 

"He is the Winter Soldier." The comment brings strangled laughs from Natasha's throat, the action so foreign on her lips it actually sounds painful. 

"You take care, Captain." Steve breathes out silent relief. Maybe she's too wrapped up in her own problems to deal with his. 

He feels the gossamer stretch and widen. The Widow pats his hand and gets up, floral sundress floating out around her knees, little sunflowers embroidered at the edges indicating Clint bought it. The man always had an affinity for summer. Natasha and Bucky are machines built from winter itself and carved from ice.

Ice - and just about anything else - melts in the late summer sun, though, and for some reason he's seeing Clint as Natasha's star and himself as Bucky's. 

 

Steve nearly trips over the clay creation sitting at the doorstep when he walks in. It's got a vintage quality to it and he decides it's too precious to be used. Instead he puts it on one of the shelves lining the walls, sandwiched in between Chekov and Hugo, the rudimentarily painted mug standing out sharply against the sleek, modern greys and dark blues of the apartment. 

"Thought you might like it." He jumps at Bucky's voice and finds the devil himself leaning against the doorframe with a SHIELD-issue t-shirt on. It hangs off his frame, especially since the dramatic weight loss he went through after awakening in SHIELD. Bucky finds him looking at it and barely shrugs. "Everything else in your closet is too big." 

There's a curl of something in his stomach at the thought of Bucky looking through his belongings. The leaner man's frame would definitely not fit in any of his clothing, and though they were about the same height (Bucky was a bit taller), Bucky's limbs - lanky in childhood, lanky in adulthood - were definitely longer than his. 

"Don't you have the stuff Natasha got you?" 

"Yeah, but everything's too small." Steve tries to read between the lines like Fury and Pepper. He can't find anything. 

It's not until he checks the bag of wadded up shirts and pants when he realizes the full implication of the message. The curl in his stomach tightens and grows and it's not unpleasant. 

At all. 

 

It's one in the morning when he wakes up to screaming. Every hair on his body is alert and his hand gropes around in the darkness, muscles relaxing only a bit when his fingers find the shield, metal cool in the swampy summer night of Manhattan. 

Steve knows it's Bucky by the second scream. He treks through the living room and into the other bedroom to find the man tangled in his own blankets, sheets too wet for it just to be sweat. 

"Dammit. Bucky!" He shakes his shoulder and comprehends his mistake a moment too late. 

The metal arm comes up and he can't move back fast enough. There's a sickening crunch and his feels something in his nose pop, the sudden rush of warmth meaning he's gushing blood. 

"Fuck!" Bucky sits up straight, sputtering and choking on Steve's vital fluids. 

"You okay?"

"Am I okay? I ain't the one dying through my nose!" He tries to get up and ends up tripping on the sheets and falling. Steve's giggle is high-pitched and sprays red everywhere, and he finally holds a hand up to contain the hot liquid. 

"You were having -"

"A nightmare, I know." Bucky brushes off Steve's helping hand and stands quickly. "You need to wash that out, kid."

After he does, Steve goes back to his bed. Bucky sneaks in a few hours later, silent and unassuming, and Steve wraps an arm around him, accepting the fact that this was going to happen one way or another. 

When light begins to spill over the skyline, Bucky pulls away with a sticky sound of wet skin leaving wet skin. 

That's how Steve wakes up, with a sweaty yet imposingly real imprint of another body beside him. 

 

Natasha gives him a disapproving frown when she joins him on his morning run. 

"Captain." 

"Yeah?" 

"Remember to keep your distance." They don't speak for the rest of the hour, letting the quick thump of feet against the ground set an uneasy mood. 

 

The number of showers Steve takes in a day rises to three. It's darkening outside, a sliver of red-orange outlining the lowest of buildings on the horizon. He's finishing toweling off his hair when he hears Bucky call his name.

"What's wrong?" 

"Nothing, I just - ah…" He doesn't say anything afterwards and Steve's curiosity grows. He walks out in just a towel and is there to witness Bucky's pupils dilate. The leaner man is fidgety, shifting from foot to foot, and Steve doesn't know what to make of it until Bucky speed walks toward him and plants a firm kiss on his lips. "Just wanted to say thanks." 

And then he disappears, and Steve' towel falls before he can give chase. 

 

Steve doesn't see Bucky for two weeks and when he finally does, Bucky's joking with Barton, skin glowing, the hollow of his neck not as prominent, muscles straining at pale skin from his latest sparring session. 

Barton's sporting a swollen, purplish eye and Bucky's knuckles are bruised, but he looks healthier than he has in decades. Clint acknowledges him with a nod as the two marksmen walk by and Bucky doesn't even look at him. 

The coil of dread in Steve's stomach suddenly becomes a very real thing, until there's contact. A pair of chilly lips barely brush the tender spot behind his left ear, and when Steve turns around both of them are gone, Natasha standing idly by in both men's place. 

"He's getting better." It's not a question. She watches him coolly and Steve fights the pleasant tension he feels. His lips curve up slightly at the corners. 

"Yeah. He is."


End file.
